Bend Over
by SeptemberWriter
Summary: O'Neill, Carter, Teal'c, and Jonas go on a mission that doesn't quite go as expected. M for Language


Colonel Jack O'Neill squints against the burning sunlight; tilting his head, he effectively uses her body to shield his eyes. He squints harder while waiting for the moment of clarity. "Bend over," he orders.

Major Samantha Carter stops abruptly; turns and looks at her commanding officer. "Sir?"

O'Neill steps up and into her pathway, effectively blocking her from any forward movement. "You heard me, Major." Stepping closer into her space, facing her nose-to-nose, boot-to-boot, he stares at her point-blank and calculates the amount of time it will take Carter to react. One beat – confusion on her face, each grimace reflecting a thought, a possible explanation; one beat – he feels like his brain is going to explode.

Carter scans up and down the rocky terrain of the foreign planet before turning back to her commanding office. "Sir, this can wait."

"As your CO, Major, I just gave you a direct order." God, he wishes he spent more time brushing his teeth this morning. Grim-faced and resolute, his silence confirms his steadfast determination.

She continues to study him, frowning, a slight pause with each thought, each glance. She takes a deep breath. "We need to get back to the gate, sir."

He leans in towards her, pressing harder into her personal space. "Major, I don't need you weak, I don't need you hurt, and I don't need you to be a fuckin' liability to me or to this mission." A single droplet of spit lands on her cheek. "Is that clear, Major?"

He watches Carter as she releases her breath; she limits her breathing pattern to small, shallow puffs; he avoids looking at her, adjusts his sunglasses and slowly surveys the perimeter, around her, and away from her.

Silence confirms his growing anger.

Cocking his head, he hears her shouting at herself, the moment of sheer panic, reams of explanation turning and exploding in her head, calculating, the internal debate, back-and-forth, around-and-around, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, fuckin' 'round-'nd-'round, back-and-forth. His nausea slowly overwhelms him. Count to ten, he tells himself, swallow, count to ten, count to twenty, do whatever it takes. Swallow and count. Each number magnifies the vibrating buzz in his skull, his skin tightens against his muscles, against the top of his head, pulling everything taunt and in diametrically opposite directions. The space between each wrist bone expands; he feels the radiating burning pain between each carpal joint, the low throbbing pain in his head. His whole body constricts and expands geometrically. He briefly closes his eyes and issues a direct order to himself: Do not pass out.

"Yes, sir," she steps back and stares directly ahead of her CO.

Out of the corner of his eye, he continues to scan her for her reactions, studying her, scanning her up and down, looking for other weaknesses.

Major Samantha Carter USAF, soldier, does not flinch and, god, he loves her for that. He notes his own reflection in her mirrored sunglasses: jaw set, lips pressed together, breathing barely perceptible. He confirms she can't see his eyes – his black-coloured sunglasses effectively hide him from her. The pain lances deeper now, in and between his eyes, he forces himself to speak, he hears his own growling voice ricocheting in his sinuses. "Do NOT break protocol on me, soldier. On this one, you are the subordinate, nothing more, nothing less." He swallows, the nausea overwhelms him, and he fights to keep from throwing up. "Are we clear, Major?"

"Yes, sir." She returns to her former position: this time at attention, fists balled, eyes front, and waits.

"Drop your pants, Major."

"The rest of the team will be waiting for us, sir. This can wait."

Silence confirms his message: If you don't do it, I will.

Carter closes her eyes and unlocks her belt bucket. She grunts in discomfort as she unzips her pants and lets them fall to her knees.

Focusing on something other than his nausea, trying to keep the rising smells from his stomach and intestines from crawling up his windpipe and up into his nose, O'Neill forces himself swallow and to focus on something other than himself, to pay attention to something other than his body. He focuses on the silence; his brain begins to register each risk and each risk has something to do with the silence. The recon in his head starts by rote and, in silence, begins to prioritize each catalogued risk. I can do this, I can maintain control, I can assess the current situation. All I have to do is stick to the ritual. Focus O'Neill, what are the risks?

Risk one - background noise. Risk two - the sheer stillness around them, no, correction, around him. Risk three…his stomach spasms, sharp stabbing pains wrench his gut. Catalogue and classify, he growls, don't stop. It will all be useful for whatever tactical assault we may have to carry out. Where is everything, everyone? No markings of civilization, no hints to indicate the planet was home to past lives. Nothing to justify being on this planet except to take a Sunday stroll. Look at all the trees; pretend all is right with the universe. Yea, right, trees. He continues his inventory, what's in stock? No animals, no birds, no insects. No, correction, there are insects, god knows from where, and they're buzzing around her. There is no silence around her.

"Underwear, too, Major."

He hears her gasp as she slides her underwear past her thighs and allows them pool around her pants. He ignores his own body, the sharpening pain in his gut, the building tremors, the chills rippling through his back muscles, the obvious shortness of breath. He roughly pushes her BDU jacket up around her breasts, exposing her hips to belly button, stopping just short on the under curve of her bra. He tips his head to get a better angle and presses his hand into her belly with small, kneading motions. He continues his inspection, quietly brushing his hand against her hips and moves deftly up to her ribs; and presses firmly below her eleventh and twelfth rib.

Carter grunts wordlessly; tears well up in her eyes and he ignores them.

Satisfied, he nods. "Turn around."

Carter grimaces, lips pressed together. She turns around, carefully stepping over the black obsidian-like rock. The rocky terrain adds to the complexity of her movements over and above her clothes pooled around her ankles.

He breathes past her ear, continuing to hold her hip as she turns around. "Lean forward, Carter." He catches her just before she loses her balance, teetering precariously over the razor jaw-like rocks. He holds her as she recovers her balance. Bracing her against his thigh, he taps against the inside of her boots and pushes her legs further apart. He steadies her with both hands, against her hips, thumbs firmly pressed against her ass.

"Bend your knees more," he orders.

She complies in silence.

O'Neill watches sweat trickle down her backside and into her ass. The heat on the planet is unbearable, but both acknowledged they need to follow stargate protocol; they couldn't take the risk and remove their military vests; they did not want to invite disaster. The afternoon sun, although setting, still blazed and the heat of the day continued to heat the air and the wind burned their skin. He knew they wouldn't risk everything. Tiny insects continued to swarm around her, the incessant buzzing noises increasing; each passing moment increasing the pitch of their buzzing, excited by the new smells and the lure of food.

God, couldn't there be trees? How about some shade, or a fuckin' breeze? He tries to imagine the smell of some of the trees on different planets they've been too; invariably, the trees oozed a sweet smelling substance, much like pinesap or maple.

One hand off her hip; he feels her ass tense as he opens the zipper. "You want it hard 'n fast or slow 'n easy?"

He continues to brace her, his knee between her legs and he absently rubs his hand up and down her ass, wiping the sweat away. Her silence confirms her denial; he understands how she is feeling, this cliché: this isn't happening to her; not here and not with him, of all people.

"Just do it, sir."

He holds his breath, he talks himself through the logic; it needs to go in deep, she'll feel it, the pain will be intense, it has to be. It needs to be close, close for maximum efficiency. He aims one millimetre beside the open wound; he hears her grunt as he sinks the needle into her ass. They wait, in silence, for her ass to go numb. Insects swarm around her; he digs through the med-kit, pulling out a bottle and rinses her wound with foul-smelling disinfectant. She winces in pain, the anesthetic doesn't work that fast. The insects retreat; the smell causes his stomach to lurch; O'Neill gags and fights the recoil in the back of his throat.

"Ready, sir."

"Five should do it," he says, controlling his voice, not allowing for inflection, forcing himself to remain toneless. Give it another ten; count to another ten just to make sure; you don't need to hurl in front of her if she flinches. She's seen it all, but she doesn't need to see this, not right now. Yea, right, another cliché.

"Yes, sir."

He studies the wound: it's long, deep, and inflamed. Pus isn't leaching out, but the smell is off, it isn't clean and it's not healing as it should be. "How the hell did you get past Doc? She should have grounded you." He flicks his finger hard against her ass. Annoyed, he feels his anger boiling inside of him: at her, at himself. All right, O'Neill, enough with the clichés.

Her silence confirms his assessment, but she still vehemently disagrees with his conclusion.

O'Neill steadies his hand against her ass.

"Everything was healing; it must have re-opened when I tripped earlier, sir."

"You tripped?"

"Yes, sir."

He forgets about the silence, the angry buzzing noises above them, and focuses on her words. "You tripped? When, last week?"

Carter snorts; a long silence as she regains self-control. "As we came out of the gate, sir."

His silence confirms his own lack of attentiveness; he doesn't have that image; he didn't notice. He adds it quickly to his catalogue, the risk tips over to the danger zone. It is time to leave. What else did he miss? Did the rest of the team notice? They must have; he missed that too.

"What about your ribs?"

"They're fine, sir."

"Major, would you care to revise your self-assessment? I barely touched you and it looks as if you're ready to pass out."

Silence confirms her defiance.

"Major, I say again, what is your state of readiness?"

"I am fine, sir."

He hears the growing irritation in her voice.

"I will make sure we get back to the Stargate without incident."

"Damn, right, we'd better, Major. You forget I'm lookin' at your ass and guess what? You've got a wound the size of a hockey stick and blood is to oozing its way on down everywhere."

"I am fine, sir."

His silence confirms his doubt, trust is not within that statement, she has said it too many times, that phrase has lost its meaning, its intent to soothe and reassure is gone. He just doesn't know if it's gone forever or just because he feels like crap today.

"You can barely breathe."

Her silence angrily shouts at him.

"Jesus, Carter," he pauses, breathing in as deeply as he can. Calm, he says, to himself, calm. Breathe through your mouth; steady your hands.

"Carter?"

Silence confirms she is in another galaxy, one that doesn't include him.

"Ready?"

Nodding, she shifts her weight to the right, struggling to find an angle that eases her ability to breathe. She supports her body with her hands on her knees. He hears the rasp and gurgling noises in her chest as she breathes out.

"Stich one."

O'Neill woke with a start, his body ready to fight. He reached for his gun; cocked it and methodical swept the perimeter of his bedroom. The shadows danced on his bedroom wall, causing him to flinch and break his protocol pattern; his brain slowly caught up with his reflexes and flashed - stand down, stand down. Airman! Stand down! Falling back into bed, he tucked the gun back under his pillow. God, every muscle ached. He hadn't slept, really slept, and he knew he wouldn't be in top form for today's mission. Should have stayed on base, he muttered. He couldn't get comfortable last night; his brain wouldn't shut down and it wouldn't shut up. He stretched his neck back and forth, sideways to work out the kinks; neck muscles burning in pain. He stretched his jaw: open, close, open, close. The aches told him he had been clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth throughout the night. He swung back out of bed; shoulders and knees burning with each half-step. He stumbled into the bathroom and swallowed a handful of painkillers. Swallowing a mouthful of antacid, his gut recoiled in disgust. He continued his shuffle into the kitchen, favouring his left knee as he limped around making coffee and plain toast.

The smell of coffee, usually a welcomed relief in the morning was off; the coffee tasted vile: lifting the coffee maker lid up, Jack acknowledged that in his haste, the coffee filter had collapsed causing the coffee to be oily, gritty, and weak. Everything he touched shattered into a hundred pieces: shitty coffee and his favourite mug beyond repair.

His body continued to hum in anger and he cryptically warned himself this was going to be one god-awful day. The irritating vibrations intensified as he shaved; music usually soothed him, but today, the music grated against his ears and ricocheted harshly inside his brain. The intensity of the harmonics increased; he flicked off the bathroom light and finished shaving in the dark, counting three nicks as he dabbed at them to stop the bleeding.

Driving to the base, the vibrations moved down and into his chest. Walking up to the first checkpoint, the vibrations stung and crawled inside and around his arms and legs. The vibrations competed against his breathing, his heartbeat, his inside voice. At the briefing, he barely heard Jonas' voice highlighting the details on what they should find and, more importantly, what they should recover on this mission.

Waiting, in silence, what for a whole two minutes? O'Neill glanced at his watch; no, the briefing was just shy of two hours. They waited to see if he had anything to say, observing the lack of sarcastic or half-hearted witty remarks; they waited in silence as their eyebrows arched higher and higher.

Silence confirmed the tone of the mission.

"If that's all, General?" he looked to Hammond.

"You have a go - dismissed."

O'Neill left the briefing room without a word and slipped into the infirmary for his medical; stepping back deftly as the wrong doctor walked by. He waited and presented himself, solider Jack O'Neill, to the newbie doctor before the rush of other SG-1 team members.

"My knee is feeling it today, Doc. We got a hike in front of us and I could use something to keep the swelling down and the pain tolerable."

"H'mmm sure, Colonel, how many days is the mission scheduled for?"

"Two days."

"H'mmm, sure. Do I need to ground you O'Neill?"

"No. I'm good for the mission."

"Okay, I've prescribed physio for when you get back. See you in a couple." She notes the line-up of other SG teams, all waiting for her.

"Thanks, Doc."

Time is of the essence; her hand absently reassured him, patting him on the back of his shoulder as she waved the next soldier in to the adjacent curtain. He's learned to love the results of his puppy-eyed look; nine out of ten, he got what he wanted; it's always a matter of timing it right. He trusted his gut and his brain to signal "go"; he took full advantage of that skill. He pocketed the meds and headed to the armoury.

"Stich two."

The team gathered, remaining wary and instinctively in silent mode. They greeted each other with curt nods, and observed O'Neill as he entered into the gate room. They've seen this before and they knew they needed to wait it out. Silently, they confirmed their weapons, supply kit, and protective gear were ready to go and ensured they had a reasonable chance of returning home.

The team waited, O'Neill went through his preparation steps in silence. Carter hung back, three paces back, out of peripheral range, and silently rearranged her protective gear while waiting for the dialing sequence to complete and send them to their next assigned planet.

Seven reverberations; O'Neill scowl deepened with each thud; his jaw clenched and unclenched; the vibrations sliced through him, he swallowed against the metallic tasting bile at the back of his throat. Waiting for final clearance, he glanced back at his team; it appeared everyone was ready. He wondered if anyone else had heard or felt the same vibrations; he'd be safe with his team; they'll protect each other on missions.

"Move out," he ordered, not waiting for the usual "God speed" from the command booth.

"Stich three."

The event horizon snapped shut; the effect of the wormhole chilled O'Neill; he fought the over-whelming urge to throw-up. The four of them cleared the area; swept the perimeter; confirmed they were alone and more than a few million light years away from earth, from home. Jonas verified the DHD would get them back home. They started their hike: fourteen KMs due south. Silence filled the three-hour hike to the first designated checkpoint. O'Neill broke with their usual off-world pattern; he covered their sixes as they hiked across the plateaus and he quickly swallowed another handful of blue, white, and red pills.

Silence surrounded the team; radiating their uneasiness.

The team completed the necessary surveys; scooping up soil, water, and botanical samples. No artifacts for Jonas; he had to make due with seeds and rock. O'Neill ignored his team, choosing instead to focus on the terrain; he remained distracted, unfocused; his tension continued to build and radiate off him. His stomach settled into a pattern of lurching back and forth, the smell in the back of his throat changed from sulphur, to metallic-blood, back to rotten eggs.

They marched on, at the second designated checkpoint, they repeated the usual off-world protocols. As they wrapped up the last piece of their precious cargo, he ordered them to split into two groups. Jonas and Teal'c – keep south; the direction the MALP indicated where the ruins were. Pausing, her teammates looked to Sam and silently confirmed with her that she'd be okay. O'Neill ignored them and started to head out assuming, like always, she would catch up. Teal'c took an additional moment and re-confirmed with Samantha Carter. Nodding to Teal'c and a quick wave to the others, she headed southwest with O'Neill and towards the unusual energy readings and the need to collect small rock drillings to hopefully confirm the existence of naquadah.

O'Neill continued to calculate; how long before this mission is over? Forty hours. God, it's too long, another overnighter. Break it down, O'Neill, break it down; divide and conquer the time. The vibrations hummed against his jawline; he continued his calculations; two more hours until he could take another handful of pills. His jaw ached and the fillings in his mouth felt like they were melting and trickling down the back of his throat. This is just getting better and better, he muttered to himself. What's after two hours? He couldn't answer, his brain really didn't respond to the question. The growing sense of unease escalated; each step, each new calculation, generated a new wave of harmonics. He knows something is off, but he can't quite place what's triggering the increasing need to act on either "fight or flight". Both he and Carter continued to tread carefully over the narrow path; Carter took the lead, three steps ahead and just slightly off to the side. O'Neill's eyes scanned up and down the pathway, his brain constantly firing alert messages, his body tense, his muscles starting to cramp.

Grimacing, he acknowledged, that by now, the danger should have presented itself. It always had before; the commotion of the stargate opening on the event horizon, the noise and lighting never let them arrive on a planet in stealth mode. Sighing, he looked at his Carter; his sense of trepidation continued to escalate.

Go back to the basics, O'Neill. What do you have, what do you need? I don't know, fuck off, and leave me the hell alone. I don't want to do this. No, asshole, what's off? I'm off, the planet's off. He stopped and listened. I'm off. There wasn't an opportunity to fix the silence; there wasn't any of the usual banter between us; not with Jonas, Teal'c, or Carter.

The terrain changed dramatically as they continued to walk further away from the checkpoints and the stargate. The landscape had morphed into consistent shades and hues of black, grey, and more grey: there were still no trees; no bushes; just razor sharp rocks that could, quite literally, slice through their regulation boots and limbs if either of them tripped and fell. He glanced up and catalogued the big, fat grey clouds - maybe rain, but much later. What do you need?

He continued to chide himself; what's the answer, something's not right. Yea, right, I already know that - something's not right. But what? It's not because of the sweat trickling down my ass - it's something else. No, not that, he can hear something is wrong, he can taste something is wrong. The vibrations are wrong; they're atonal. He eyes his 2IC's ass, scanning her legs. He caught the glisten of something falling to the ground and disappearing into one of the shards of black rock. O'Neill continued to scan up and down the pathway and his focus returned to her ass. Too long and there are drops of blood. Abruptly, his brain focused on time: the hike was taking too long.

"Stich four."

Colonel Jack O'Neill tilted his head to one side, squinting against the bright sunlight, and looked up and down the backside of his second-in-command. His scowl deepened as he re-focused his attention on her ass. "Bend over," he ordered.

"Stich five."

"Done, it'll hold until we get back to back to base and Doc can fix you up. Get dressed."

"Yes, sir."

The insects hover closer as he collects the medical waste; their dome-shaped eyes stare and are hideously black.

"You're bleeding." Carter gestures towards his face. He swipes his jawline, his nose; streaks of blood cover his hand.

"Here." She hands him a wipe. "It's your nose." She pauses. "Did you get hit?"

"No." The vibrations hit their jagged peak; blood continues to stream out of his nose.

"Carter, what the hell?" He sinks to his knees, fresh cuts slice into his hands and knees. He closes his eyes and the droning continues. He looks to Carter, blinking against the sunlight, unfocused and choking on his own lifeline.

"Pinch your nose; breathe through your mouth."

He vomits – violently, the liquid splays at least a meter in front of him. He continues to vomit with a full force; Carter steps aside and watches the semi-liquid gobs slowly start to form a meniscus. From this, she can calculate the density, the gravitational pull, and the energy it took him to expel the contents of his gut.

O'Neill sags against his body and looks at the vomit, his vomit, in disbelief. He notes the pills, they haven't lost their colour; they're dissolving in and amongst coffee, coffee grounds, and gobs of toast. The smells are something other than breakfast and he gags against the stench.

She stares at him, "Jesus, how many of those things did you take?"

His silence confirms his weakness; he continues to retch, blood pouring out of his nose and his heart pounding and pulsating in his ears.

"What's wrong with you?

He pushes back and sits on his haunches. "Nothin'."

She hands him her canteen. Spitting, he rinses and cleans out in his mouth; the insects swarm the residue in a frenzied ecstasy of easy food.

She toes the vomit, kicking out the pills until a small pile forms. "Is that what's wrong with you?"

"Watch the tone, Major."

"You're not drunk, you're not high, not even you do that before a mission." She continues to stand, bending her injured leg slightly.

He heaves and waits for his stomach to quite lurching; he catches something reflecting from her sunglasses with the help of the fading sunlight but he doesn't quite know what it is, the moment of clarify escapes from him.

"Stick out your tongue."

"What?"

"Stick out your tongue, sir." She grasps his jaw and tilts his head up. "Now, sir." She studies his tongue; she tips his sunglasses back and peers into his eyes. "We're not in range to radio Teal'c and Jonas; we need to get to the Stargate, sir. We need to rendezvous with the rest of the team and -"

He gasps to catch his breath; silence confirms his growing confusion.

"God, we've got to get you back. Now. Can you stand? Can you walk?"

He hears her voice, but not the words. Maybe if he slept for forty hours instead, he would feel better.

"Hey, Colonel, I need you to stay with me." She snaps her fingers in front of his face. "I need you to focus, Colonel, stay with me."

He bats her hand away, his stomach retches, and the water that he just swallowed is heaved out through his nose, mixed with blood; nothing comes out of his mouth; his stomach refuses to be expelled.

She tugs at him and he reluctantly stands.

"Sir, I need you to walk with me, we need to get back to the gate, you're ill; we need to get you back to Doc, back to sickbay."

His entire abdomen cramps. "God," he groans as he sinks to the ground again. Shit explodes out of his ass; sulfur and rotten eggs permeate the air around them.

"Oh, god, sir." Carter pales at the smell and breathes through her mouth.

The spasms stop; he breaks out into a sweat; his muscle tremble in chills even though it's a hundred degrees; he looks to the horizon and can't focus.

"Carter."

"It's okay, sir, I've got you. Stay with me."

He looks at her askance, "not leaving."

"Good, sir. Stay with me. Let's get back to the checkpoint. Teal'c and Jonas will be in range, they'll come and help."

He tries to get up and move; leading them back to checkpoints are his job, but his legs refuse to move; there is a chemical imbalance and his brain isn't sending the right signals. She presses against him as he stands, stopping him from weaving and lurching forward.

"Are you done? Do you want to change your clothes first? Before we head back?" She reaches into his knapsack. "Sir, take off your pants, I'll help you get cleaned up."

He nods and closes his eyes; the insects retreat, there is no food, just poison.

"Underwear, too."

He undoes his buckle and pushes his pants and underwear down around his ankles. He keeps his protective gear on and continues to use the sleeve of his shirt as a nose wipe. The nose bleed is slowing; he can almost breathe through his nose again.

Carter opens her knife and slices through the soiled clothes, refusing to breathe. "I can't carry you over these rocks; my stitches will pop and this time I'll bleed out. Stay with me." She shakes him. "Stay with me, Colonel. You can pass out later. When we get home, you can sleep, you can have booze, you can have the Simpsons, you can have whatever you want. Okay? Just stay with me, sir." She nods at him; encouraging him to look at her; to see her standing beside him.

Leaning in closer, she steadies him and quickly wipes the liquid shit off him. The filthy closes lie in a heap, the clean clothes cover and protect him. She rubs disinfectant all her knife and hands before giving him her water canteen.

"Drink. Take a few small sips."

"Carter, I need to sleep."

"No, I need you to walk, sir; I want you to follow me back to the checkpoint site. Start moving, you need to keep your eyes on me, we'll only go as fast as you can walk."

Carter pulls him along, draping herself around him.

"I need to sleep."

"Yes, sir. When we get back."

Silence engulfs them as they take their first steps together.

O'Neill stops and dry-heaves again. "Can I just die now?"

"Damn it, Colonel." Carter stops and steps into his space. "Listen to me, I don't want you weak, and I don't fuckin' need you to be a fuckin' liability to me on this mission, Colonel. We need to keep moving. We need to keep going and get back to Teal'c and Jonas. Are we clear, Colonel?"

He peers at her, sweat trickling down the sides of her cheek; her silence is deafening. He finally nods. "Ya' right, you got me, we're clear. Let's go home, Major."


End file.
